I guess these things have to start somewhere. So I’ll start with a loose introductions of sorts.
It’s 7:51 PM on a weeknight and I’ve completely turned over all rights to bedtime (of our two curly-headed boys) over to my husband. He’s worked just as hard I as have today, BUT I put the kids to bed yesterday and I cooked dinner tonight, so I win. I’m listening to Wyclef’s ‘Gone Till November’ on repeat while I write this. I’ve always admired the way the song builds in the beginning. If I close my eyes, relax, and breathe it almost feels like I’m back in high school riding around in my mom’s Volvo with the window’s down after it’s just rained. There are few things that smell better than Georgia after the rain. There’s just a few songs that hold magic in them for me, and that one’s one of them.
I’m nearing 31 and stretching in ways that I’ve prayed for, but didn’t fully expect to all occur at once. This New Year while everyone was making promises to eat better and exercise, I committed to myself that I’d do the hard work. The thoughts that flash quickly of insecurity or doubt, I sat in them. Revisit them often. I chip away at the why. Pulled memories from hidden places in an effort to understand who I am. Really, why I am. It’s been the greatest thing I’ve done for myself maybe… ever. I’ll even turn to Mike sometimes and through tears, I’ll try my best to put what I’m feeling into words and allow him to chip away at the walls with me. God knows he’s my God-send.
These day’s I’m in an eternal state of tired. Needing to be refreshed by who knows what. My day job went from pure perfection to (newly) organized chaos and it’s taken everything to keep my head above water, but something about it still feels so fulfilling. It’s hard work but for the first time in seven years, I finally feel like I belong where I am. You’ve got to know what it feels like showing up and things not feeling quite right. Even worse when you know it’s not right but you feel stuck. I’m blessed not to be in that place anymore.
I just took the contact form off of my photography page. Do you know what it’s like to not feel served anymore by something people praise you for? Those words were the hardest to piece together for me. Photography no longer serves me. The truth is that it did. It was mine. Parts of my value, my identity even were wrapped up in it. Every photoshoot got a tiny little piece of me. The compliments felt good but the (self imposed) feelings that I wasn’t living up to something weren’t worth my peace. Even letting that paragraph out into the wild feels like I’ve just slipped out from under a pile of blankets in the dead of winter. It feels cold, like I’m throwing something away that used to protect me, but I also feel free. I won’t ever abandon it, but it no longer has to define me.
If I want to be defined by anything, it’s that I’m transparent, maybe sometimes to a fault. That I give my heart to easing others discomforts, making them aware they have someone on their side. So here we are. Writing again. Feeling at home.